Waving Not Drowning

It takes too long to steam the milk, so she pours it into the coffee straight from the fridge. Makes for a tepid cup, but she finishes it in a few long pulls. Good enough. The fridge is brand new, as is the stove. So is the bathroom sink and toilet. The last tenant died here so they did a complete overhaul on the apartment, including new floors and paint job. Sometimes it's easier to tear it all down and start over. She wasn't expecting this. Sometimes life throws you a curveball; you're thinking fastball and up you go. Counts 3 and 2, runner on 2nd, one out, bottom of the 6th. Ten more outs to go. You've got this. Head down. Keep on swinging. He would have been 19 this May. Christopher Harrison Jude. So many birth names. Never a battle she wanted to wage so everyone got their pick. He crowned and then stopped when she was giving birth as if to say, wait- I don't know- I just- I don't belong here. His first attempt was grade 9. Teams we...

All her heroes were boys. Men. By default, not choice. She grew up watching boys play sports, tried to hone in and keep up with the bullies. Eventually she found her place. She threw a ball better than most of them. Isla was coordinated, creative, and awkwardly tall for her age. By 11 years old she was 5'9" with a size 10 shoe. She hated basketball, though. Volleyball made more sense but her heart lay in baseball. Hardball not softball. At first they refused: no girls allowed. It's too dangerous. You can't get around on the ball fast enough. You're too slow, not strong enough. You're going to get hurt. They would let her practice in pick up games, bury her in right field on a day when the occasional ball might come her way. But when Devin tore his hamstring and they needed her on second, Isla rose to the occasion, beyond even her own expectations. Everything suddenly made sense. Kismet, maybe. Her spatial understanding of where to field, how to work the bag, jo...